


and angels weep

by euphania



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Drabble Collection, Epilogue, arguable spelling of russian names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 11:29:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7101397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphania/pseuds/euphania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How all the characters (aside Pierre) react to the Great Comet of 1812. An epilogue of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Andrey

**Author's Note:**

> each chapter mostly corresponds to one character, more or less, so, nice! a couple of notes:
> 
> \- listen man i have very tenuous knowledge of a lot of things. wouldn't the bolkonskys have servants? probably. wouldn't it suck to run outside in the russian winter with very little clothing? yeah most likely. suspension of disbelief man
> 
> \- other than that just enjoy. it's good to see the fic count for this fandom go up from four to five

He is hunched over in the study, reading war records and updates on battle movements through flickering gas-light. The scrawling ink text strains his mind and he presses two fingers against his temple, closing his eyes as he stands up, straightening his back. 

Andrey takes a deep breath in from his belly and lets his hand fall to his side, opening his eyes. His sight slowly drifts to the window and settles on the white streak positioning itself in the sky, hundreds of miles above, acutely unaware of everything around it. 

The breath in his belly stirs, but he does not release it, too focused on the comet. The faint light casts shadows against his gaunt, hard-set face; there is a distinct jab in his chest as he gazes up at the clear night. 

He does not move until the need for oxygen pricks his vision, reminding him to breathe. Clearing his throat, he releases himself, and, in one stiff movement, sits back down and resumes his reading. 

For the rest of the night, he pays the comet no mind.


	2. Natasha, Sonya, and Marya

It’s Natasha who sees it out the bedroom window, a brilliant it across a pin-pricked sky, hovering above the dark city rooftops. Wonder rises in her stomach as she stares at it, biting her lip. The lateness of the hour means nothing as she rushes out of the room.  


“Marya! Marya, you must be up!”  


She floats by Marya’s bedroom, knocking but not stopping. Near-skipping down the hall to Sonya’s door, she yanks the handle and it swings open silently. Natasha tiptoes to the curved form with elation.  


“Sonya, oh, Sonya, dear, you simply _must_ come see! The most beautiful thing, the most magical thing…” Sonya’s eyes are folded up and Natasha shoves the sheets to find her soft hands hiding underneath.  


“I know it is late, but trust me, trust me…”  


Natasha practically pulls Sonya out of her bed, both hands intertwined with the other’s like locks. Sonya is still blinking away sleep as she is dragged out of the room, through the hallway, down the stairs, through the drawing-room, through another hallway, onto the porch, and into the courtyard, her nightgown twisting against her legs with quiet shushes. The ground, swept clean of snow but crunchy with frost, seems to burn against her feet.  


“Look _up_ , Sonya, look _up_ …” Natasha says, in such a wonder-filled and carefree voice it seems as if the events of the past few days have not occurred. Hesitantly, Sonya turns her head towards the sky with a gentle gasp.  


The comet flickers like a streetlight in the night, centered by tiny stars and stagnant in movement. It curves, shimmering in the slightest way, and Sonya forgets the cold that nips at her heels and freezes her breath. Natasha has not let go of her hands, letting theirs join loosely between them.  


“Oh, Natasha.”  


“I dare call it the most beautiful thing I have seen in quite some time, quite some time…” Every sentence she gasps trails off in breathy amazement. The house creaks as Marya steps out onto the porch, a large fur coat hanging around her frame, her arms not through the sleeves, tugging the coat around her by the corners. She hardly looks up at the comet, rather focusing on the two bewildered girls in front of her, their pupils wide and faces slack. A smile pulls at her lips. The cold pulls at her skin.  


After several silent minutes, Sonya takes a hesitant glance at Natasha’s enchanted look. Natasha’s hands are warm against her own; Sonya feels suddenly overwhelmed with the feeling of _home_. Slowly, she gazes back up at the sky.  


Sonya squeezes Natasha’s hands. Without looking, Natasha squeezes back.


	3. Anatole

Always in constant search for gaiety, it did not take long for Anatole to settle in Petersburg, least of all with _les jolies femmes._ The girl beneath him is nameless—perhaps she is called Anna, they all are, aren’t they—and breathless. Hot-tempered hands on skin; his breath is heavy, humid, and against her neck. 

When he kisses her, she laughs, a sticky laugh, and her dark eyes gleam in the dark, white slivers of light. Anatole would have likened them to the night sky, had he been more focused on words, rather than actions. 

The curtains are drawn, shielding them from the outside. Through all of their passion, the comet shines unnoticed.


	4. Hélène

Filled on heavy wine and scandal, Hélène has decided an empty house has no use to her. Dolokhov is out; her husband is out; Anatole is gone. She retires to bed early, drowning herself in thick sheets and pillows.  


It is late when the bedroom door is opened; she registers it, but does not stir. Around her, there is shuffling, a coat falling to the floor, shoes being taken off.  


“I know you must be asleep, wife, but there is quite the phenomenon in the sky tonight,” the voice remarks into the darkness, with an unnatural softness about it. Suddenly, there is a heavy weight against the bed, the frame creaking, mattress dipping.  


Hélène makes a soft noise of discontent as the sheets are re-arranged and the heat of another body radiates near her. A hand snakes its way towards hers, taking it loosely. She starts, alarmed.  


“Hélène… you can see it out the window. Do look.”  


Hélène says nothing, but spreads her fingers so they can intertwine. The comfort of callused hands is welcomed, and in this instance, she can forget whom they belong to.  


Several minutes later, she gently opens her eyes and looks to the open window—the comet twists at the top left corner.  


She stares at the bright light with bleak wonder until the fatigue and the alcohol pull her back under.


	5. Dolokhov

The Club is loud behind him, clammer and clinking wine glasses pushing their sound through the brick walls. Dolokhov’s breath twists in front of him in the bitter air as he steps onto the sidewalk, a half-drunk bottle of rum in hand. The snow gives way under his feet and spills into his boots. 

Few people are out at this hour, but those who are have their faces tilted up towards the sky. Following their lead, Dolokhov turns his head to see—above the city rooftops, surrounded by brilliant white stars— the comet, curling across the black firmament. A wide grin spreads across Dolokhov’s ruddy face, lopsided by the alcohol, a grand sense of calm washing over him as he stands in amazement. His fingertips start to go numb with the cold, and his still-unbuttoned coat lets the air needle against his chest, but he does not move. 

Finally, after many minutes, he breaks his form, smile still present on his face as he takes a deep swing of his rum. The liquid presses a deep warm into his belly and heat rushes to his fingertips. Buttoning his coat one-handed, he continues down the boulevard, his grin never faltering.


	6. Princess Mary, Prince Bolkonsky

Mary is still cleaning the dining room, putting cutlery into their sets, folding napkins, past midnight. There are forever clothes to be hung up, books to be put away, letters to be written... 

_It is all for him. It is my personal sacrifice. It is fine._ A mantra she repeats to herself as she walks through the quiet rooms. _It is to thank him. It is what has to be done. It is just how it is._

She is dusting a bureau when she catches sight of the grand comet through the large windows. Mary pauses, her face dropping with amazement, her mouth forming a small “o” of wonder. It stretches across the vast sky and centers itself perfectly in the window frame, as if waiting for her. The stars around it glimmer quietly, as if stepping out of the spotlight to showcase the magnificent sight. Her stomach drops, something deep moving within her; tears brew at the edges of her eyes. One hand moves to grasp the cross hanging at her neck, the corners digging into her palm. 

Upstairs, Prince Bolkonsky rolls in his bed and is abruptly overtaken by a horrendous coughing fit. His low barks reverberate and seem to shake and rumble Mary’s chest; each cough sends a startling shock through her, shoulders trembling, eyes still fixated on the comet. She has already wasted too much time focusing on it. Tears slip through her pursed lips and burn salt against her tongue. There is still so much to be done for him. 

Mary swallows. She takes a heavy breath, and goes back to work.


	7. Balaga

Caught in the grand Russian nowhere, on a highway hard with frost and ice-packed snow, a drunken man collapsed in his troika, Balaga sees the comet the minute it appears. To him, it harbors no amazement; it is nothing else but a comet, another ornament in the sky, alongside the stars and alongside the currently-hidden moon. 

The man mutters something behind him, shivering in his coat, and Balaga urges the horses to pick up the pace. Besides the sounds of the horses against slush and the ragged, slurred breathing of the man, it is mortally quiet. Wind weaves through the snow banks and the trees. Light bounces against the white ground. 

Balaga still has many hours to go to reach his destination, the little city of Tver—“Take me to Tver, I want to go home, take me to Tver,” the only thing the man had told him—and much longer until he can rest. However, the time spent rushing through the woods is not lonely; the entire journey, he has company. In the corner of his eye, the great comet rests, an arrow in the sky, watching him. Yes, the sun will rise and the comet will fade, but for now, he is not alone.


End file.
